Chapter 2: Sweets, Schemes, and Shifting Thrones

I, the Raja, am dead:

The one who cried the hardest was my Pradhan Mantri.

Pradhan Mantri Chaturvedi threw himself in front of the garlanded photo, wailing so hard he nearly fainted.

“My king’s fate is bitter… My king’s fate is bitter…”

His wails echoed down the corridors, loud enough to rattle the glass bangles of passing maids and disturb a nest of mynahs in the courtyard neem tree. The man had lungs like a dholak.

Someone tried to calm him, warning him not to speak nonsense, saying the late Raja had many sons and died peacefully of old age.

Chaturvedi ji was so angry his eyes turned red. He shoved the man aside. “Have you ever seen someone in their forties die of old age?”

Yeah, I’m only forty-five this year.

I thought I still had plenty of time.

Even in my last days, I was planning to fix the palace roof, maybe finally paint the study walls in peacock blue. But fate is as fickle as a Delhi traffic jam—one moment you’re on track, next moment, signal pe gaya.

Seeing Chaturvedi ji getting more and more worked up, I walked over and patted his shoulder.

This old fellow has a weak heart. What if he gets too upset and joins me in the afterlife?

I remembered how, during Holi last year, he almost fainted from excitement after winning at teen patti. The family doctor had to run in with his bag, scolding everyone for letting him eat soan papdi.

The moment my hand landed, Chaturvedi ji’s whole body stiffened, wild joy flashing in his eyes as he turned to look at me in disbelief.

But when he saw who it was, the light in his eyes instantly faded.

“So it’s… the Yuvraj.”

Chaturvedi ji bowed and saluted, his body slowly sinking down.

I blinked, a little moved.

Then I patted his shoulder again. “Pradhan Mantri, take care of yourself. Before my father passed, he told me again and again that your heart isn’t well, and you mustn’t grieve too much. Our Bharatpur still needs you.”

At these words, Chaturvedi ji sobbed even harder, bowing deeply to my photo.

My Senapati was crying too, but nowhere near as sincerely as Chaturvedi ji.

He was weeping while sneakily picking at the offerings in front of the photo.

I sniffed. Mm, it’s the rasgulla made by Royal Chef Joshi—sweet but not cloying, soft and delicious, my favourite.

Taking advantage of the curtain nearby, I quietly squatted beside the Senapati, then took a rasgulla and stuffed it into my mouth right under his nose.

Yes, that’s the taste.

I’d been sick for so long, the royal vaids wouldn’t let me eat, saying it was bad for my digestion and not good for my illness.

I’d been craving this for ages.

The Senapati stared at me in shock as I took one piece after another from the offering table.

“Uh… Yuvraj… Yuvraj has a good appetite…”

His moustache trembled, a bead of syrup stuck at the corner of his lips. For all his military bearing, when it came to sweets, he was helpless—just like a child caught stealing jalebis from the puja thali.

I waved my hand, still chewing. “Just had a craving.”

“Jijaji likes rasgulla too?”

Yes, this is the Maharani’s younger brother, my brother-in-law, Senapati Raghav.

Raghav scratched his head, embarrassed. “I’m just hungry.”

I nodded knowingly. This fellow’s big, gets hungry fast, and trains soldiers every day. It’s tough work.

So I just took down the whole plate of rasgulla, and another plate of soan papdi.

“Kha le, yaar. Pitaji Maharaj won’t mind, I swear.”

Raghav looked flattered. “This… this really isn’t proper.”

My legs were numb from squatting, so I just sat down on the floor. As I bit into the rasgulla, syrup flooded my mouth, and for a moment I closed my eyes—remembering Holi as a boy, sticky-fingered and laughing, Amma chasing me around the tulsi pot, a rasgulla melting on my tongue while the dholak played outside. The memory was so bright it nearly stung.

I sat there, chewing mithai and looking up at my own garlanded photo.

Hai Ram, what is this situation?

Forced to go back online, still working for Bharatpur.

The hum of the ceiling fan and the distant chatter of servants filled the silence as I watched the flickering diya by my own photo, feeling equal parts absurd and strangely at peace.

A slow fan circled overhead, barely stirring the heavy June air.